Want is a Bullet to the Soul
by WithRhymeNoReason
Summary: He has spent the last five years wanting, and if hope is the thing with feathers that perches on the soul, want is the bullets that rip right through it. One-shot, R/S angst.


_This fic was written for the HP Fanfiction Prompts' contest on Tumblr. The prompt was #576: Finding himself without another option, Remus ends up at Grimmauld Place at the full moon._

…

The clouds hanging above him are bruise-blue and heavy, sinking down onto the city below, crowding rooftops and ushering people inside. Remus doesn't need the sky to tell him that he will soon be caught in a pouring rain. He can feel it in his joints, a tingle that dances across his skin and makes all the hair on his arms stand up straight. Shivering, he stuffs his hands under his armpits and continues walking down the abandoned muggle street, weeds growing up through cracks in the pavement and the green glass of broken beer bottles shining dully in the faint light. He knows he blends into this neighborhood, dark hood thrown over his head and limping shuffle, head bent towards the ground as he avoids the gaze of anything that isn't the pavement staring back at him.

Without a job and kicked out of his flat after failing to find the money for rent for yet another month, there is only one place he can go. A place he _has_ to go to, on this night of the full moon.

The familiar feeling of abandonment which had left Remus for so long creeps back into him through the cracks the war has made in him.

He knows when he reaches it, feels another sort of tingle run through him, leaving him feeling as though he has just been electrocuted, bones shaky and muscles limp. He feels its shadow fall on him like a bad feeling, wrapping him in discontent and causing a rock to fall heavy and sickening through his heart, his lungs, his stomach.

It's not until the rain finally begins to fall that he allows himself to look up at the great looming house, blinking rapidly as rain splashes off his lashes into his eyes.

Grimmauld Place.

Its abandonment is apparent. Windows grimy and shattered, wild tangles of thorns and ivy vying for dominance in the garden and along the face of the house, graffiti covering the aged bricks.

Remus hasn't been here for five years. Not since Lily and James died.

Since Peter disappeared.

Since Sirius betrayed them.

His heart hurts with remembered pain and he forces himself to keep his head up as the rain stings his eyes.

The Order had left the house to go to ruin, an unwanted memory of a time people wanted only to forget. Remus wouldn't have returned if he'd had any other choice; he was no masochist. The memories flooding back into him are already proving to be more overwhelming than he'd prepared himself for. It's a terrible mix of misery and nostalgia that has his throat burning and chest freezing, a paralyzing, suffocating feeling as though he's gotten the air knocked out of him. Because it wasn't all bad, and that's what hurt most to remember.

They had birthdays here; James would sing in a ridiculous falsetto as Sirius ran around the room and Peter clapped his hands gleefully, the adults looking on with appropriately disapproving expressions but with secret smiles and showers of golden sparks.

There was a count on the inside of one of the cupboards of how many times Lily and James were caught snogging in a spare closet.

Harry took his first steps here, short legs moving block-like across the carpet, face alight with delight at his parents' encouragement and his own importance.

Remus became part of a _we_ here. An _us_.

He puts a hand on the wrought iron gate, feeling the squeak of the rusty hinges go through him as he slowly pushes it open. He walks across the short pathway, being sure to step on all the cracks. The front door sticks when he tries to open it. The protective magic having been broken long ago, swollen joints and years of disuse are his only obstacles. There are only a spare few times when Remus is glad for his lycanthropy, and he says a muttered thanks for his strength as he gives the door a final shove and it gives way to a dark, cold hallway.

Dust covers every surface generously; Remus feels his lungs coated in it with each shallow breath he takes. Each room he steps into has been ransacked; desk drawers pulled out and rummaged through, paintings torn from walls, vases and decorations leaving behind only their impressions in dust.

It's a ghost house for the ghosts in Remus' mind, who come dancing forth to play make-believe in the scene in front of him, and he has to close his eyes as they stand half-smiling at him from their place in the past.

After forcing himself to make the precursory glance through the house to be sure no one else is there, Remus hauls himself to the basement. He's unsure how much time is left before the change, and he can feel the wolf stirring within him, crawling underneath the surface of his skin and stalking the edges of his consciousness. It makes him restless and nervous, and he paces across the room with long, agitated strides until he notices something in the corner.

It's bunched up and lumpy, and as Remus draws closer he realizes it's the small cot and blankets he used to lay on pre- and post-transformation, body aching and mind either racing or numb.

Sirius would always sneak down the morning after a transformation, mending the gashes that would litter Remus' body and sitting with him on the makeshift bed, arms around each other, each needing the confirmation of the other's strength, their life, the warm beating of their heart and the gentle brush of hot breath on sensitive necks.

Remus presses his nose into a pillow, and with the wolf so close to the surface, the scent is unmistakable.

His mate.

His friend.

His love.

Sirius.

His heart caves in, or maybe it's his soul. Everything is too warm and the rush of air in and out of his lungs is deafening, he's drowning in remembered touch and all he wants, despite all of it, is for Sirius to be here with him, now, body strong against his.

A sob crashes its way out of his collapsed lungs, searing his throat as it dissolves into a scream. Liquid frustration rushes through his veins, burning his heart, his eyes, leaving him gasping for breath at the hole in his chest and the utter unfairness that has taken hold of his life.

He has spent the last five years _wanting_, and if hope is the thing with feathers that perches on the soul, want is the bullets that rip right through it. Remus feels it spreading like a poison, shredding his bones and skinning him alive, and it's not until fangs tear their way through his gums that Remus realizes the change is upon him.

Remus is surrounded by Sirius, but he's too close and too far away at the same time, and Remus surrenders to the agony as his joints rearrange their sockets and his skin melts, reforms to stretch over its larger frame.

He wants to live, to die, in this feeling of Sirius surrounding him, an artificial warmth, a permanent home he wants to wear on his clothes and absorb into his skin.

He wants it to be over, and he wants it to go on, because he can't decide which pain is worse.

He wants dark eyes and full lips that know how to move against his; he wants to never be alone again.

He wants.


End file.
